


If There's Angels There Must Be Demons Too

by alphadick



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - No Walkers, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Fuckery, Demon Powers, Demon!Rick, Healing Powers, Human!Daryl, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, demon contracts, possessive!Rick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphadick/pseuds/alphadick
Summary: Daryl was young enough when it happened the first time...when he saw him, that he could convince himself it didn't happen.Except it keeps happening.|Daryl keeps running into the same demon throughout his life. Enough that they're starting to get familiar. But everything on the internet says you cannot enter into a contract unknowingly...right?
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes, Maggie Greene/Glenn Rhee
Comments: 23
Kudos: 58





	1. prologue: first blood.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, I don't know where this came from. I had a random obsession with demons and this fic decided to be born. hope you like. c:

The first time he sees him Daryl’s eight and he’s standing outside his burning house, surrounded by firetrucks and cop cars. Daryl can’t help but focus on him, his movements odd in the bustle of bodies trying to quench the flames. He’s dressed like a firefighter but his suit looks stained, burnt at the edges, giving him a singed look. Before his eyes the man seems to shift, classic yellow of his firefighter gear turning an inky black that starts from the tattered cuffs of his suit and slowly spreads until he’s covered in a suit of the deepest black. He turns slightly, allowing Daryl to catch a glimpse of his features, enough to see that the man has an almost manic expression on his face. His brow and cheeks are smeared with ash from the fire, defining his features and making his dirty blonde beard something darker. Above his ears and slightly back from his face, crimson tinged with black begins to protrude from his head, sharp looking spikes that begin to curve and twist until they stand a good six inches out from his head. The pair of horns look fearsome, a deft curve along the solid material that sends the horns curving back and up, horizontal with the earth. A spade shaped tail whips about, odd looking coming from under the long firefighter’s jacket. He looks severe, half-crazed but in control as he struts through the mess of people in Daryl’s front yard, melting through the people like they’re not even there—correction, like he’s not even there. Nobody seems to see him, not the people in the gathering crowd, not the people he passes, no one.

He’s a jarring piece in the landscape that causes Daryl’s world to tilt on its axis a little more. Daryl knows he should feel upset, knows he should be grieving for his mother, but he feels hollow instead. Growing up, Daryl had felt too much, he’d felt every lash of his father’s belt, every scar from a thrown alcohol bottle, every hurled insult. He’d watched his mother sit in her lounge chair and smoke away while Daryl’s father beat the tar out of him more times than he can count.

It’s almost exhausting to watch the only home he had ever known go up in flames simply because he knows it means his father is going to find some way to blame it on him. Merle’s still locked up, serving out another juvie term and that means Daryl’s on his own…He looks for the odd man again, the last he’d seen him it had almost looked like he was turning to ash himself, floating away on the wind while the actual firefighters fought the blaze behind him. Daryl’s eyes bounce around until they land on the man leaning over his mother’s prone body, her form lifeless and singed from the fire. The first responders had declared her gone after a few frantic moments of trying to keep her breathing. Up closer, Daryl finally knows what he’s looking at, he’d seen pictures in his mother’s bible, and depictions on the walls of the church when his mother would sometimes take him. A demon. It leans over his mom, face almost garish as his smirk widens, displaying rows of teeth that are overly pointy for any normal man. He pulls something from his mom’s chest, something red-black, something pulsing. Daryl feels himself step forward, mouth working at odds, trying to scream, to do something…the demon holds up the pulsing thing…the soul? And eats it, no chewing, just a straight swallow and Daryl’s mother is gone. There is nothing left but an empty shell.

Daryl falls back, looking up in time to see the demon make eye contact, a small grin turning the corner of his mouth up. He waves roguishly, like this is just some movie scene and not real life, and then he’s gone. A social worker is trying to talk to him but her words are falling on deaf ears. She’s pulling his arm, trying to turn him away from his mother’s lifeless body but Daryl’s afraid if he looks away the demon’s going to be back but this time it’ll be for him. It isn’t until she physically picks up the boy and carries him to her car that Daryl’s eye contact is broken.

He has nightmares for months that the demon will come back for him, that he’s next. But there is no demon, there is just men who act like demons. His father sobers up enough to convince the social worker and the judge that he is a fit parent and they release Daryl into his care regardless of the fact that every cell in Daryl’s body is screaming against it. Slowly the nightmares about demons fade, but they are replaced by real fears, by real pain. The nightmares about real life increase with every scar or lash that covers Daryl’s body. He may be young, but Daryl convinces himself he wasn’t in his right mind that night, that there was no such thing as demons when man was doing a perfectly good job carrying out hellish torture.

Daryl resigns himself to his life.

||

The next time Daryl sees him he’s thirteen, sitting bitch on his friend’s first motorcycle. Daryl vaguely remembers that it had stopped raining not too long before they took off, tires screeching in protest. They’re out on some backwoods roads in bumfuck Georgia. Both entirely too young to be driving but stupid enough to still do it. It’s pretty much too late by the time Daryl realizes the back wheel keeps sliding out a bit, that their turns aren’t clean or precise anymore. He’s about to say something, to shout over the roar of the motorcycle’s engine but it is most definitely too late.

John takes a turn too quick, the front wheel slides out and suddenly they’re careening into the guard rail. Daryl comes to on his back, pain sparking to a heady rush from somewhere below his waist. He screams as he tries to sit up, mind doing that sickening fluttering/whooshy, cotton filled thing that makes him feel like he’s hovering inches off the ground. Daryl catches himself staring off into the trees, mind slow with what he learns later is actually a pretty terrible concussion.

_…john…shit…where is he?..._

Moving his head is some sort of force of nature, but eventually his muscles obey and he peers under the twisted steel of the guard rail. Some fifteen feet from the site of the crash Daryl can see a gnarled heap. For a second he can’t seem to associate that it’s John, but then he feels the blood drain from his face. John is ass over head, crumpled like a dropped marionette and Daryl feels the bile rise in his throat. It’s horrific.

Daryl crumples to the side and heaves, emptying the meager contents of his stomach onto the wet asphalt. The movement jars his legs and another scream of pure agony sounds from Daryl’s throat. He falls back flat, panting with the after effects of the pain lighting along his nerve endings.

“John, buddy, talk to me—fuckin’ talk to me, jesus-shit you can’t be dead, com’on man, SHIT—“ Daryl cries, feeling the hot tears track down his face along with the cold shed of rain water falling from the sky again. There’s just the soft sound of rain picking up again after a momentary lapse in the weather and then there’s screaming. Blood-curdling screaming as John feels every excruciating inch of his body.

**_“Holy fuck, ohmy-god, fuck, fuckad-daryl, jesus Christ—somebody hel-helpmee-HELP ME SOMEBODY,”_** John sobs.

Daryl feels his chest squeeze, openly sobbing as he listens to his friend’s anguished cries. There’s nothing he can do, he can’t move and there’s no one here. “God, somebody please, help us…” Daryl whispers brokenly. A crack of lightening and the smell of sulfur distracts Daryl from his pointed staring down what little he can see of the road. Head tilted Daryl notices the soft tread of boots making their way towards him from the trees. “Help! HELP US PLEASE!” Daryl screams, eyes tracking up the stranger’s body, a momentary flare of hope sparking within him. But the stranger is taking his sweet time making his way over from the other side of the road. He hurdles the other guard rail with an ease and grace that borders on otherworldly. His steps almost a form of hovering as he tracks his way towards Daryl’s prone form. He’s steaming, the water hitting this stranger’s body and instantly turning to mist and evaporating into the air. The boy’s eyes are drawn up to eyes of pitch black, not a hint of white to be seen. Something jars loose in his brain, a memory he had hidden far within the recesses of his mind.

**_demon._ **

****

He wants to crawl away but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. It’s the demon that came and collected his mom and now it’s here for him. It’s finally come.

John had heard his pleas for help and has quieted to a sort of broken moaning, either that or he’s barely fighting consciousness, the shock has to be setting in.

**“Hey kid, we meet again,”** The demon remarks, surveying the scene with a quick cursory glance.

“You’re here to take me like you took my mom, aren’t you?” Daryl responds quietly, feeling like a bug under the heel of someone’s boot as he lays prone on the cold ground while the demon leans over him speculatively. His legs are throbbing and now there’s a stabbing pain starting behind his eyes that’s making it hard to concentrate on anything happening around him. All he wants to do is close his eyes and let it all go. Maybe it’s time? Maybe Daryl’s life is only meant to be thirteen shitty years long?

The demon smirks, showing pearly white pointed teeth, entirely too sharp to ever pass as human. A look passes over his face, momentarily murderous in its intent, but then his features smooth. **“Are you scared to die kid?”**

Daryl takes a long moment to collect his thoughts, and that cotton-y feeling is back, like getting an answer requires him rattling a few things around his head loose and seeing what drops. He smacks his lips a few times and then just decides to shake his head no and tacks on, “pretty shitty life so far…” The demon smirks, black tail whipping back and forth a few times like a delighted cat.

**“Not quite what I asked…everyone’s a little scared of the unknown right?”** The demon remarks, choosing to elegantly perch himself on the gnarled guardrail that didn’t so much protect them as launch John like a cannonball hurtling straight towards his demise somewhere in the darkness near the tree line.

Daryl stares quietly for an indeterminate amount of time. The pounding in his head is distracting, thoughts slow and lazy. “I don-wanna go to hell,” because Daryl’s not a good kid, gets that yelled at him every day he comes home, gets it in the looks his teacher’s give him because he’s got ratty hand-me-downs and because he always stinks of cigarettes and booze, gets it in his head because he steals sometimes and that goes against everything good right?

The demon shifts lightly, hovering closer, enough that Daryl can feel the heat coming off him. It’s a comforting balm against the cool rain that’s soaking through all of his clothes. **“Oh sweet boy, I’m not here for you,”** the words register as the demon’s face is morphing, horns sprouting from his roguish hair and he’s moving off towards John. Time seems to slow down around them, enough that Daryl can see individual rain drops hovering in the air. Overwhelmingly he suddenly hears a faint heartbeat that’s growing quickly in volume, thinks it’s his own until he glances towards his friend and sees the demon standing over John, just waiting. The heartbeat is stuttering, valiantly trying to keep rhythm but ultimately failing. John had fallen silent some time ago.

The faltering beat gets so loud Daryl wants to cover his ears, wants to block the sound out and then just as suddenly as it had swelled…it goes silent. And he just knows. Doesn’t need to be closer or look at John to know that the boy is gone from this world. He watches the demon stoop to draw that same red-black ball from John that he once took from his mother, and Daryl watches him eat it again. Pops it in his mouth like a mint and swallows away John’s soul.

Panic is starting to bubble up in Daryl’s chest, suddenly very afraid that despite the demon’s words that he will still march back over here and take Daryl’s soul next. That he’ll be going to hell.

But the demon just leaps the guardrail again, standing over Daryl’s prone form with an appraising eye. He whips out something that looks oddly like a cell phone— _what, a demon with a cell phone??_ —Daryl realizes he must be losing his grip on reality. He must blank out for a minute or two because when he comes back the demon is leaning over his legs with a look on intense concentration. **“This is probably going to hurt sweet boy, so you might want to go back to la la land,”** and then he flicks his finger and it feels like someone just poured acid on his legs. There’s a sickening cracking sound, a jarring motion that vaguely feels like someone yanked his leg out of its socket and then jammed it back in all in one go but over and over again. Daryl quite suddenly realizes he’s screaming, but all too soon he blacks out.

The demon quirks a brow when the boy goes silent, pausing momentarily so that he can hear the deafening staccato of the boy’s rapid fire heart beat before continuing with his ministrations. When he’s done the demon stands up and with a smirk, snaps his fingers and he’s gone. There is the unmistakable sound of sirens in the distance.

Afterwards, when Daryl wakes up in the ambulance he has to beg off going to the hospital, they don’t have health insurance. He refuses to tell them his name, makes a run for it when they mistakenly leave him alone for a second to sign some paperwork when they arrive at the hospital. Daryl’s shocked he’s okay, vividly remembers the pain in his legs. Later, on the news he hears of his friend’s death, a ‘tragic accident caused by slippery roads’ and that it was ‘instantly fatal’—Daryl has to turn away at that, remembering the broken screaming that John had let out. Yeah, there was nothing instantly fatal about that.

He throws up later, sick to his stomach that somehow he survived where his friend had not. When he strips to take a quick shower there’s a series of faint spider-like scars that track along his legs. They hadn’t been there before, but it’s all the proof Daryl needs to know that what he saw this time…it wasn’t some dream, some fantasy he’d made up late one night in grief. No. The demon is real and surely he’ll come one day for payment for saving Daryl’s life.

||

Daryl’s in juvie at 15 when he sees him next. At first he thought he was imagining it but when he glances again it is definitely the tall, wild haired man with his dirty blonde beard and piercing eyes. Daryl for once has the time to observe him. He’s not wracked with pain like last time or watching his house go up in smoke like the time before.

No one else seems to notice him as he’s tracking a lazy path through the tables in the mess hall. Somehow he doesn’t touch any one person even though it is a loud and bustling day in the cafeteria. Daryl wants to scream at him, get his attention, but his voice has gone silent. Instead he watches from behind the shag fringe of his hair. Interestingly enough, Daryl follows the man’s gaze, sees it pinpointing a rather large boy near the other side of the cafeteria. The boy looks spooked, as if he can see the demon too and suddenly Daryl’s up and out of his seat. The boy is running from the mess hall, disappearing out of the wide double doors and around the corner. Daryl stages a less hasty departure, making sure to keep a good ten feet behind the demon who is also following the boy out of the room.

A sick curiosity is burning inside of Daryl, a need to know whether this is what will eventually happen to him, that this is how he will go out when the demon comes to collect. He loses sight of the both of them at the end of the hall, a panic entering him as he starts jogging around the corner to catch up. Daryl doesn’t factor in running into the demon. Momentarily he’s cradled in warm arms, hands steadying him against a solid chest. He startles easily, nearly jumping out of that circlet of warmth to put a bit of space between them. There is a momentary look of shock that swirls across the demon’s face before it’s replaced with a soft smile. He clucks his tongue like a chastising mother, **“are you following me?”** It’s almost comical the way the demon says it, like he’s joking around with Daryl…like a long lost friend.

“N-n-no, m’not!” Daryl stutters, flushing with the way the demon smirks at him. “What are **_you_** doing _here_?” Daryl manages to gasp out, trying to tamp down the blush he knows is spreading further across his pale skin.

**“How’re the legs?”** the demon questions instead, offhand gesturing towards the bottom half of Daryl’s body. It somewhat throws Daryl for a loop because he had always thought that after the motorcycle incident there was something different about him. It wasn’t just the spider web scars on his legs, no he was a little different, a little faster, a little stronger. His dad and his brother couldn’t catch him anymore, but he had attributed that more to growing up than supernatural enhancement.

“What…did. you. do?” Daryl bites out, fists clenching because last time he checked all of his demon resources, a contract had to be knowingly entered in to. A demon couldn’t sell his soul without asking him first.

**“Oh calm down kid,”** the demon scoffs lightly, and rolls his eyes like a petulant teenager. **“You should thank—”** whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by a shadow running from the corner and barreling straight into Daryl. He feels a sharp pain in his side, enough that it hurts every time he takes in a breath. **“God damnit, you stupid shit,”** it takes a second for Daryl to realize that the demon’s not talking to him. Daryl manages to flop over on his back, hand clutched disbelievingly at his side where he’d been shanked.

“What the fuck,” Daryl whispers, feels blood in his mouth, can feel it leaking out through his fingers that are trying to stem the flow at his side. He looks up and notices the large kid from the cafeteria that had been able to see the demon too is being held against the wall by his throat.

The demon is near growling at the kid who’s begging for his life and crying so much there’s snot dripping from his nose. **“—shut the fuck up, are you fucking stupid, how did you miss me? He’s fucking human just like you? Also you can’t kill me, this stupid little blade wouldn’t even hurt me—”** there’s a feeling of intense rage rolling off the demon, his horns and tail growing rapidly, the spade shape whipping angrily like a pissed off cat. Daryl’s eyes are distracted by the motion, tracking the flickering-flipping motion of the spade shape. The edges of his vision are going hazy and black.

There’s a sickening crunch and Daryl looks up to see that the demon has snapped the boy’s neck, his head hanging limply to the side. He watches the demon once again devour someone’s soul, the same red-black ball, the same mint-popping motion.

Daryl lies back, assured in the fact that he’ll be next this time. **“Don’t go closing your eyes kid,”** the demon appears over him, eyes still full black but horns and tail gone.

“M’finally next right?” Daryl mumbles, a soft and sad smile gracing his features.

**“Just shut up,”** is the last thing Daryl hears because he doesn’t listen to the demon and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see himself die.

Daryl wakes with a start, sitting up on what he instantly knows is his uncomfortable cot in his juvie cell. It’s dark signaling that it’s after light’s out and they’re locked in for the night. His cellmate must have felt his startled movement because next thing he knows the skinny kid is sticking his head over the side of the bunk bed to look at him.

“Yah alright Daryl? I came back from lunch and you were already passed out on your cot. You slept through the commotion too. We’re on lock down so your dinner’s on the table over there.” Glenn points across the cell to the plastic tray on top of the small table that comes out of the wall.

“Yah m’fine, wasn’t feeling well is all.” Daryl gets up to scarf down the food, but mid chew he remembers what Glenn just said. He turns around quickly, “what commotion Glenn?” The kid looks like he had just rolled back over to go to sleep but with little complaint he rolls back towards Daryl so that they can stare at each other through the darkness.

“Yah know that big kid Haney? They found him in his cell, looks like he hung himself.” And Daryl knows that’s not true, knows he saw how Haney really died but he doesn’t say anything and just nods lightly. After a moment of silence Glenn rolls back over to go back to sleep. Daryl’s thankful for him as a cellmate, wouldn’t be able to be this lax around another kid. Any other cellmate would have eaten Daryl’s food the first chance they got, would have told him to fuck off and not given a shit about him.

While Daryl doesn’t consider himself a good person, he knows Glenn is and he’s going to protect that ridiculous innocence while he can.

Later that night, when all is silent save the sounds of snoring and the movement of the guards as they do their rounds…Daryl ponders his predicament. He’s now been saved twice, Daryl’s more sure than ever that the demon will come for him. The only question is when.

The next morning, in the light of day Daryl is able to see the only actual tangible reminder that this isn’t some fucked up nightmare of his: now on his right side, over his hip where the shank had entered is just a raised silvery scar that certainly hadn’t been there before.

It's heavy. The weight of a soul saved twice over. Daryl wagers there is some greater plan afoot. Surely there has to be for the demon to keep him alive not once but twice. No point in trying to parse out the details, one day, his number would be up and the devil would come for his due. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys liked the 'prologue' of sorts, next chapter will be 'present time'.
> 
> let me know what you think! c:


	2. i spend these days now, in a war with who i was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> daryl gets a blast from the past.

It’s been long enough that thoughts of the demon have become nothing more than late night fever dreams. Somedays he thinks about his past, but most days he is thankful for all this extra time on earth. Whether the demon would appear at some point down the road…well Daryl assumes that’s what is to be expected.

Sometimes he wonders if it’ll be like with that kid in juvie, Haney, whether Daryl will give into human nature and his fight or flight response will kick in. Despite the knowledge that normal human weapons do little for demons, will he still try to fight the inevitable? Like a rat trying to flee a sinking ship, when will hope give out?

He’d done a lot of internet research following the last run in with the demon. Confusion swirling through Daryl at the fact that the demon had saved his life not once but twice. But at what cost? Not that the internet was likely to be the truest source of information since most of the world likely had no idea that demons did in fact walk amongst them. Regardless, everything seemed to come to the same consensus that a demonic contract couldn’t be entered into without formal consent. So what does that mean for him?

Daryl had spent at least into his early twenties trying to parse that particular mystery out. He kept expecting the demon around every corner, just waiting, watching. After another few years he stopped being so vigilant. Eventually his question would have to be answered, right?

||

Daryl twists the handle on his motorcycle and rockets further down the road, knowing the way to work by heart at this point and very likely he could ride the route blindfolded. He rolls to a stop in front of the mechanic’s shop, knocking out the kick stand and leaning his bike on it before dismounting. Beth’s as cheery as ever at the front desk, her boots kicked up on the counter as she thumbs through a classic car magazine. Tried and true, Beth had been raised from the womb in the mechanic’s shop. Her dad teaching her everything she knows. It’s incredibly entertaining every time Beth manages to put someone in their place for questioning her expertise. Some of their customers still get a shock when they realize how much of a little spitfire she is.

“Morning Daryl!” She chirps happily, eyes barely leaving the magazine.

“Mornin’,” he moves past her to the employees only door and out into the garage. Glenn’s leaned over a honda’s engine and Abraham is rolled under a Toyota.

Glenn hears him come in and stands up to wipe his hands off and come over to him. They’d kept in touch after juvie and shared a similar desire to work on cars and motorcycles. Herschel, Beth’s dad had owned the shop for more years than Daryl could remember. Wanted to pass it off eventually in his aging years and he’d taught Daryl and Glenn everything they knew. Didn’t hurt that Glenn had been dating Herschel’s daughter Maggie for a number of years and the two would probably be engaged before the year was out.

“Mornin’ Daryl,” Glenn greets in that usual cheery way of his. Abraham offers a quick ‘lo from amongst the area of the Toyota’s undercarriage but not much else.

“Mornin’, how’s it going?” Daryl grunts, eyes tracking over the cars currently in the bay and out towards the large gravel park where the rest of their jobs waited patiently, gleaming in the morning sun.

Glenn’s rubbing at a particularly difficult spot of grease on his hand, but still shrugs, “same ole same ole. Jerry’s engine’s acting up again and Abe’s working on diagnostics of this soccer mom’s 4runner.”

“Any bikes?” It was no secret that Daryl preferred to work on motorcycles over anything else. He’d fixed up his own from a piece of junk his brother gifted him one year. A frown tugs at his mouth when he thinks of his brother. The man hadn’t blown through town in a number of years and Daryl can’t put a finger on the last time he heard from him either. That usually meant his brother was locked up somewhere, good.

They’d parted on bad terms over six years ago when Merle had tried to convince Daryl to help him with running drugs for some biker gang. Merle was an over-achiever in the sense that he tried to keep his hands in as many pots as possible, which doesn’t translate well when you start running drugs against the cartel. The same cartel that Merle also helped with a variety of things. The man had almost gotten murdered a few dozen times over but he always somehow came out of it with minor injuries and bounced back like he hadn’t almost just taken a dirt nap. Daryl has to admit that most of his brother’s run-ins with death were brought about by his smartass mouth more than anything else. Merle’s brand generally wasn’t liked by very many people.

Glenn smirks, oblivious to the sour turn of Daryl’s thoughts, “yah, some out of towner brought it in today saying it was making a weird sound. He’s in town for business so he said we have until the end of the week to try and fix it.” Daryl nods, already heading towards the dark crimson Harley in his corner of the bay.

Daryl had spent an inordinate amount of effort to make sure Glenn never came around Merle. He’d taken his promise to himself in juvie, to protect Glenn’s own personal brand of innocence, to heart. Merle was his brother after all, and as such, Daryl spent the most time paying for the man’s mistakes.

“I’m gonna take it for a spin and try to hear what this noise is he’s talking about,” Daryl calls over his shoulder. He grabs the keys off the bench top and hops over the smooth leather seat. It’s a kick start, a personal favorite of his. The Harley roars to life under him, an odd noise not immediately apparent. Glenn waves at him as he passes by on his way out of the bay.

“Don’t forget about dinner tonight with Mags!” Glenn shouts over the roar of the motorcycle’s engine, but Daryl hears him clearly, throwing up a hand in response.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Daryl grunts to himself, only a few constants in his life.

||

Daryl kicks his leg back over the side of his motorcycle, the large Harley settling onto the kickstand in his garage. He’s just this side of tipsy, warm from the few jack and cokes he had over dinner with Mags and Glenn. It’s their usual routine, at least once or twice a week they’ll meet up for dinner. It’s comfortable and sometimes Daryl can forget they’re just doing it because they might pity him a little bit. But that’s okay. Daryl knows he’s better off alone anyways.

A sound behind him causes a cold dagger to slide down his spine. Instantly the warm fuzzy feeling of alcohol and a full belly are replaced with sobering clarity. Daryl grabs for the closest weapon, a long wrench on his workbench and whips around. He wishes it were his gun but that’s inside tucked in his beside table. A thought shoots through him that it might be the demon, back to claim his soul after all these years.

“—woah-woah!” The voice is instantly familiar as it is grating.

Daryl growls, lowering his makeshift weapon and stomping over to the light switch beside the door to his kitchen. “Merle what the fuck are yah doin’, I coulda taken’ your head off.” Daryl grumbles some more, pointedly telling his brother he’s lucky it wasn’t his gun he’d pulled on him.

“Hey, hey, don’t be like that lil bro, I thought you’d be excited to see me,” Merle has an annoying habit of putting everything behind them like it didn’t happen. He follows Daryl easily into the house like he has any right to share the same space with his brother after all these years. Figures, that the first time Daryl has thought about his brother in some months happens to somehow draw the man to wind up on his doorstep. Vaguely, Daryl wonders if he cursed, or if Merle is like the boogeyman and even a thought about him makes him appear.

Daryl opens the fridge and drags out a beer, knowing any conversation with Merle is made much easier with alcohol. Merle doesn’t miss the way his brother doesn’t offer him a beer but swallows the little frown before moving to the fridge to get one for himself. “Last I remember, we’d decided to not speak,” Daryl reminds him, leaning a hip against the counter.

“Hey now, that was a disagreement, surely we’re past it baby bro,” Merle raises his hands in a look of surrender, all conniving and sickly sweet. That’s when Daryl sees it, fuck.

“What the fuck happened to your hand?” When Merle had raised his hands, it was better apt to say hand. In place of his left hand is a wicked metal looking hook. Last time Daryl had seen his brother he’d definitely had both appendages. He scrubs a tired hand over his own face, beckoning his brother into the living room. As he passes the fridge he grabs another beer because he already knows he’s going to need it.

Merle looks positively delighted, like the significance of losing his hand was all worth it to get his brother to kowtow to him so easily. “Don’t go splittin’ hairs little brother, just had a disagreement with some folks and they relieved me of it. Almost don’t notice it’s gone anymore.”

Daryl looks at him for a long second, taking a large draw from the glass bottle before narrowing his eyes at his older brother. “Just exactly how long has your hand been gone?” Merle has the good sense to look a little contrite.

“You may have been right when you said running drugs for the Outlaws would land me in some hot water with the Perez cartel.” Merle still grins like this is all some big fucking joke, even when Daryl sputters over his beer, liquid splashing against his dirty jeans.

“You’re tellin’ me this happened six years ago and I’m just findin’ out about it now?” Daryl is seething, teeth grit so hard he might pop his jaw, but his brother is unphased.

“Nah, it was only a year or so back, but same situation. Alls I was sayin’ was you were right warnin’ me off them.” Merle cuts through the air with his hooked hand, the metal glinting in the light. It makes him unreasonably mad for some reason. Daryl wants to spit, he wants to punch him, wants to tell him he’s a fucking idiot, but what good would it do?

Instead, Daryl sighs and sinks back into the recliner. “What do you want Merle?” And it’s like a switch is flipped, his brother becoming a livewire as he hops forward in his seat.

“There’s a big score up for grabs, just gotta do this one job and we’ll be set for a good while. Need your help brother, the hook’s not too bad but can’t get around the same like I used too. Besides, you were always better at lock picking than me—”

“Stop. Just stop.” Daryl snarls, finishing off his one beer and instantly popping the top of the next on the edge of the side table. “I didn’t want to get into your shit six years ago and I don’t want to now. Be thankful they just took your hand, they coulda taken your fool life.” He’d done a lot of growing up in the six years since he’d last seen Merle. He wasn’t the easy pushover the man likely remembers.

“Easy, easy, don’t get your panties in a wad. Didn’t know yah went all pansy on me.” Merle snarks, knowing the words will cut Daryl just the way he wants them too. What a prick.

He grimaces, choosing a nonresponse and to take a large swig of his beer so he doesn’t do something stupid like get up and sock his brother in the eye. Merle just looks pleased with himself, “so can I shack up here for a bit?” He’s out of his goddamned mind, offering a job, then insulting Daryl, and then moving right on to trying to get a place to sleep.

“Nah, go find a motel, place is all full here, no vacancies. Show yourself out.” Daryl grunts, eyeing his brother until he chuckles indulgently and stands. He’s doing that bullshit raising his hands—hand and one hook—in surrender like it helps at all to make him look any less like the predator Daryl knows he is. Merle can be a mean summbitch when he wants to be.

“See yah around lil bro,” Merle calls over his shoulder, leaving through the kitchen door they had come in. Daryl wishes the tension would flow from his shoulders the minute his brother closes the door like it seems to in movies and books, but Daryl knows this isn’t the end. Merle always wants his way, and most of the time he gets it. If it hadn’t been for Daryl up and fleeing to a different city the last time they fought Daryl doesn’t know whether he would have wound up under the chopping knife himself at some point.

“God damnit.”

||

There’s a little mom and pop shop diner that Daryl frequents pretty regularly. Maggie works there as a waitress part time and always makes sure Daryl’s eggs are cooked just right. It’s as close to home-cooked as Daryl’s ever been privy too. The coffee isn’t the best but he barely tastes it besides swallowing for the added caffeine boost. Merle’s made himself scarce for most of the week, Daryl only having caught a glimpse of him when he rode by the one motel in town to see if the man was still hanging around. Besides that it’s been quiet on all fronts, which just makes Daryl more nervous.

He’s chatting with Maggie, which generally involves her talking and Daryl listening with detached interest. Sometimes it feels like Glenn and Maggie took him on like a little pet project of theirs, some sort of savior complex within both of them sparking to life when they see the mess that is Daryl. A shadow falls over his table and Daryl doesn’t even have to look up to know. He wants to growl, tell the man to fuck off but it’s already too late because he has a proverbial hook in Maggie.

“Who’s this D? A _lady-friend_?” Merle’s saccharine voice coos. Maggie looks momentarily startled that someone had stopped at their table. She’d been in a long spiel about something that happened recently on the latest episode of her favorite TV show.

“Just a friend.” He bites out, chewing more aggressively on his bacon as Merle moves to sit in the booth across from Daryl where Maggie has recently vacated. She’s clutching the coffee pot like a lifeline, eyes pinging between both of them, trying to do the math. “Mags, this is Merle, don’t pay him any mind.” Daryl is willing her to walk away with his eyes.

“Don’t be like that lil bro, Mags is it—”

“Maggie to you,” Daryl hisses.

“—I’m Daryl’s older brother Merle, it’s a pleasure. Didn’t know this one could make friends. Darlina’s always been a loner.” Daryl can feel the familiar flush of shame rushing up his neck, thankful that his midlength hair covers not only his neck for the most part but his shaggy fringe offers him a sort of veil between him and his brother.

“Shut the fuck up b’fore I knock your teeth out,” Daryl growls, peeking up, expecting to see the usual, people always end up being charmed by Merle. Daryl’s never understood how he does it. One minute the man is just another backwards hick and the next he’s charming the panties off a college co-ed. Instead, Maggie looks irritated, her proverbial hackles raised seemingly on Daryl’s behalf.

“Anythin’ I can get you sir?” She grits it out, the unsure posture and rigid grip on the coffee pot now a thing of the past. Now she looks more likely to swing and hit Merle with it then anything else.

Merle just keep rolling, unphased by the sudden lack of warm feelings, “whatever you recommend sugar.” And with that, it’s like she doesn’t exist to him anymore, the man dismissing her like garbage underfoot. Daryl wants to snarl, but he wills Maggie to walk away even though she’s shooting him a look so searching Daryl doesn’t want to know what she finds.

“So yah give anymore thought to the job,” he’s already leaning forward and snatching the last of Daryl’s bacon, uncaring when he makes a stab with his fork to stop him.

“I already told yah no, if you’re sticking around tryin’ to wait me out it ain’t gonna happen,” Daryl sighs heavily, falling back in the booth. Merle launches off, instantly somehow taking that as a cue to try and talk Daryl into it. He zones out, eyes moving over the other occupants of the diner. Maggie’s dealing with a few customers at the till but her eyes keep furtively checking on him. Like Merle might just up and stab him suddenly. Ha, Daryl could laugh at that.

A flicker at the corner of his eye catches his attention. Something vaguely familiar tickling at the back of his brain. An insidious thought, a word he hasn’t thought in some years worms to the forefront of his mind. It’s emblazoned with vivid memories of a dirty blonde beard and messy curls, of blue eyes and an accent this side of the Mississippi.

Daryl’s up before he even realizes, not quite sure what he says to Merle in his haste to leave, but pretty mollified it was likely a rendition of “go fuck yourself”. He’s racing out of the diner, chasing the fleeting glimpse of shadow or otherworldly that floats around the corner up ahead. Vaguely he wonders what exactly he hopes to accomplish by running down the devil. Answers? An untimely— _ ~~timely~~_ —death?

He skids around the corner, running face first into a sturdy back. Daryl falls with a dramatic oof, breath momentarily knocked from his lungs. The guy for all intents and purposes looks unharmed, barely even seeming to have moved with the impact. He turns to look Daryl up and down, the left corner of his mouth turning down almost imperceptibly. It’s that feeling— **demon** —similar but not the same that has Daryl at a loss for words. The aura suddenly isn’t warm or even remotely inviting, his memories dashed in the face of reality.

Of fucking course there would be more than one demon. Daryl’s just suddenly offered himself up like prey on a platter. Fucking idiot.

“Uh sorry man, wasn’t watching where I was going—” Daryl manages to choke out after finally regaining some functionality of his lungs. Easier to try and play this off, try to get out of this unscathed. What had he been expecting? **_The_ demon?** Sure, Daryl’s seen him three times, three separate instances of intense emotional turmoil of some variety. Not entirely insane to think he’s got like a personal demon. Is that how it works?

The man’s face falls even more, the expression not even hidden this time. “Don’t even know why he fuckin’ bothers,” the demon grunts, leaning forward and looking Daryl over like a piece of meat. “How many times?”

It takes a second for Daryl to realize he’s been addressed. Frantically he tries to parse out what the question means. The demon looks irritated, tsking to himself, “I said, how many fuckin’ times human?”

Still, Daryl’s brain is failing to make the connection, no answers forthcoming. “What?” He grunts out, realizing he should get up, should stop cowering on the ground.

The demon hisses through his teeth, drags a large hand through his short dark hair and grunts. “I said—” Daryl’s grabbed by the front of his shirt, drawn forward and pulled level with the man’s gaze, “how many fuckin’ times has Rick interfered?” He can almost feel the confused cock of his eyebrow.

“Who’s Rick—”

“ **Shane put him the fuck down.”** Daryl can’t help the bolt of lightning that flares down his spine at that voice. He cranes his neck to look behind him, both him and the demon holding him drawn to the newcomer.

‘Shane’ rolls his eyes and lets go of Daryl’s shirt, unceremoniously dropping him back to the pavement. For Daryl’s credit he holds in the startled yelp and is able to catch himself for the most part. Shane’s wiping his hands on his jeans like the act of touching Daryl was repulsive enough.

He can’t help himself, Daryl rushes to pick himself up off the ground, turning to get a better look at the man that had haunted his dreams and nightmares for years. **_Rick_**. He doesn’t look very different from last time. The beard is more tamed but his hair’s longer, curls slicked back but still a mess at the nape of his neck. A few errant strands have fallen across his forehead and around his ears. His eyes a piercing blue where most of Daryl’s memories are of them pitch black and depthless.

“Hey kiddo, miss me?” Rick growls it in a way that Daryl wants to instantly forget. Instead it has him flushing like he isn’t 28 years old and a grown fucking man.

“M-m not a kid,” he grunts, shuffling awkwardly in the face of Rick’s devilish grin. He’d imagined multiple times what meeting up with the demon again would be like. He’d never imagined this scenario, good god (good devil?).

“Right, you’re in your twenties now,” Rick questions easily, as if he and Daryl were just catching up like long lost acquaintances.

“Er, yeah—”

“Rick what the fuck,” Shane interrupts, brushing past Daryl like he barely exists and marching over to the other demon. “I told you, I fuckin’ told you this was nothin’ but trouble and you didn’t fuckin’ listen. What the hell have yah gotten yourself into?”

“Calm down brother, it’s nothin’ to concern yourself with,” Rick brushes him off easily, eyes still eagerly trained on Daryl. “Why don’t yah head back, Michonne’s probably worried.” Shane looks like he’s about to say something but whatever look Rick gives him, it has him spinning around and marching off angrily. Daryl watches him go, a confusing mixture of surprised but not surprised when Shane disappears like ash on the wind. He’s still distractedly staring at where Shane had just been standing when he realizes Rick’s gotten much closer to him. “You’ve certainly grown up since the juvie days,” Rick intones, toothy smirk sending Daryl’s body into confusing somersaults.

“Well that was over ten years ago,” even to his own ears he sounds petulant, as if the 10+ years hadn’t had any effect on his attitude.

“Stayin’ out of trouble I’m sure?” The demon looks positively giddy, if there was such a thing for the devil.

Daryl really does feel petulant now, his response only a slight lift of his shoulder. He feels like a guppy before a shark, while both of them are nearly equal in height Daryl still feels the lesser. Irritated by his sudden influx of hesitation, Daryl grits his teeth in anger. He looks up, eyes caught easily by Rick’s brilliant blue irises—and honestly how can something so light and blue turn so dark and depthless. “Are we in a contract—”

“—Why the fuck did yah run off like that Darlina?” Merle’s irritated timber breaks Daryl from his private demon bubble. Instantly, he remembers he’s just on the side of the road, but even so, blinking doesn’t remove Rick from sight. Vaguely, he wonders if Merle will be able to see Rick.

His brother stops short, eyes ping-ponging between Rick and Daryl, cogs whirling behind his eyes. (Well that answers that question). Daryl realizes belatedly that him and Rick are standing suspiciously close, at least too close for a southern town in Georgia, and for his brother. The man’s eyes turn sharp, stomping forward with a dangerous air. Daryl would almost be afraid in another situation, but when you’ve seen Rick in true form, when you know that demons do exist and walk amongst you…everything else pales in comparison.

“Who the fuck are you?” Merle is curt, metal hook flashing in the midday sun. To Daryl’s trained eye Rick is no longer amused and teasing. He’s once again all predator.

“Back down Merle, just accidentally ran into the dude, come off it,” Daryl hisses, moving past Rick to try and drag his brother away. His words have a somewhat soothing balm on his brother, the man’s hackles lowering slightly like he hadn’t just caught his brother about to engage in some brokeback mountain type shit. Not that, that was where Rick and his conversation was going regardless. Daryl can’t keep himself from blushing at his own mind’s insinuation.

Rick, the devil, like a shark sensing blood in the water perks up. He reaches for Daryl, latching a hand around his bicep and drawing him back before he can escape with his brother. “Don’t go gettin’ into trouble, don’t say yes.” His eyes flick to the man over Daryl’s shoulder, something cold and dangerous glinting in them, before he lets go of Daryl entirely. “See yah around kiddo.” He walks off without a care in the world, Merle spluttering behind him indignantly.

“What the fuck, why the fuck did he call yah kiddo? He’s like what? At most ten years older than you? If that?” Merle keeps ranting on about how there must have been more to that encounter, that Rick’s words didn’t sound like a stranger talking to another stranger, that he was going to figure out whatever was going on—Daryl drowns him out.

Daryl doesn’t watch Rick leave, sure that the man turns the corner and melts to ash just like Shane, just like before. He turns from his brother and walks off, back towards the diner and his motorcycle to head to work. Whatever his brother says he doesn’t hear, heart throbbing in his ears like a runaway horse. **_Rick._** Well fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys liked this chapter. c:


	3. and i'll use you as a warning sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl makes some bad decisions.

Glenn can tell something is up the minute he rides into the gravel lot of the repair shop. Daryl’s antsier than he’s ever seen him before…correction—Glenn does remember seeing the man in a similar state back in juvie, but that was years ago. Maggie had called him not even five minutes ago to fill him in on what happened at the diner. Glenn has had little to no run-ins with the infamous Merle, but he’s heard enough to last him a lifetime.

Instead of surly and sharp—which is what Glenn is expecting if he’s honest—Daryl’s wide eyed and distracted. He fumbles with more than a few tools, gaze obviously wandering off, zoning out. He’s not quite sure how to broach the subject. Despite their years of friendship, Glenn has never quite cracked the enigma that is Daryl’s family.

Sure, he knows Daryl’s dad is a right bastard, and that Merle’s an apple that didn’t fall too far from the proverbial tree, but besides that Daryl’s been tight lipped and silent. Whenever the mention of family is even uttered he gets stony and short tempered. His lips thinning even more until they’re barely an indention on his face. He doesn’t want to push…but damnit. Glenn knows that Daryl is living on the fringes, knows that he thinks the dinners with Maggie and him are just handouts, pity. He couldn’t be further from the truth, but proving it to the man seems near impossible. Trust him, Glenn’s been trying for years.

Seeing his friend in this state is mildly unnerving. Glenn has only ever seen about four emotions from Daryl and they range between anger, drunk, tired, and moody. This…this is uncharted territory.

“Hey man,” Glenn finally summons the courage to approach his friend, noticing with surprise the way Daryl flinches like he hadn’t realized there were other people in the garage with him. He pretends not to see it, smiling in his usual way, all golden retriever personality.

“Hey bud,” Daryl murmurs, drawing the dazed expression back into himself as if just realizing it’d been slapped across his face all morning. “What’s up?”

Glenn sets his jaw, bracing himself on both legs like he might take a punch, even if he knows Daryl hasn’t raised a hand towards him the whole term of their friendship. “Mags told me about Merle bein’ in town…” He leaves it open ended, an easy out but for once Glenn hopes Daryl doesn’t take it.

“Wah?—er oh yah. Fucker’s not gonna be around long if I have anythin’ to say about it.” He’s momentarily caught off guard. Had he not been expecting Glenn to know about Merle…or was it something else entirely? They stare at each other, Glenn almost pleading with those puppy dog eyes of his to just spill it. They remain silent.

He sighs, “do yah want to come stay with Mags and me until he leaves?” He feels compelled to offer the housing, something inside him deeply worried about Daryl all on his own out there in the woods. Like sheltering him in their home can keep him safe.

Daryl looks like a deer caught in headlights, like the offer had never been extended to him before. “Huh—uh. Nah, Merle doesn’t mean any harm, he’s just a prick.” But there’s a soft edge to Daryl’s mouth and something warms in Glenn having offered the help all the same. Maybe the man isn’t so oblivious to their obvious friendship.

“Okay, well offer stands, and Mags will want you over for dinner tomorrow night, she’s making one of her new recipes. Needs taste testers.” Glenn feels the insinuation in his voice. Knows it’s a weak fib, but anything to keep Daryl connected to all of them and keep him from drifting further into the outskirts. He’ll have to invite Beth and maybe Abraham and his girl. Maybe make a night of it or something. Hershel would likely come, and Glenn knows Daryl loves Hershel like the father he never got.

“Kay…” Daryl’s eyes are icey blue but the normal frost is gone, instead, they’re molten and gooey, an odd sheen to them. “Now leave me be, ain’t gonna get any work done with you yapping.”

Glenn kowtows to Daryl’s shooing, moving off back towards a Ford he had been working on. There’s still an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades, the idea of Merle being in town not sitting right.

||

Daryl’s on a backroad, flying nearly thirty miles over the speed limit but it feels invigorating. It wipes his mind, the thoughts and feelings tumbling somewhere back there twenty miles behind him in the dust. This is where he feels alive, wind whipping through his hair and vest. The sun is low in the sky, shooting beautiful reds, oranges, and pinks streaking through the clouds. The Harley rumbling between his legs feels like a beast, loud and droning. It drowns out the noises, only his heartbeat and the wind his companions.

For a moment he wants to let go, hands itching to come off the handlebars and eyelids flickering with their want to shut. If he truly is in a contract, let fate decide…but he doesn’t.

A black blur whips by and Daryl nearly throws the bike in his effort to brake. He swings around with a ridiculous screech of tires and groaning of metal. He’s panting, breath barely able to catch, heart an unrelenting pounding in his chest. For a second…for a second he’d thought it was Rick. Rick standing there on the side of the road just watching him.

His gaze sweeps the woods and the shoulder of the highway, no man, no devil. He grunts, falling back heavier into his seat and chuckling idiotically to himself. Right. Like Rick would be following him out here. If it hadn’t been for Rick’s demon friend today he wouldn’t have seen Rick in over ten years. Surely, that means the man wasn’t planning on coming around until whatever deal he’d unwillingly signed Daryl into comes due.

Daryl throws a shaking hand through tangled/wind swept hair and grabs for the pack of cigarettes he knows are in his breast pocket. In the sudden quiet, only the rumbling of his Harley’s engine and the sounds of the forest can be heard for miles. He strikes his lighter, puffing until his cigarette is lit and taking a few shaky drags. One day and his world’s been tilted on its axis.

He wants to scream, wants to yell until Rick shows up and explains exactly what Daryl owes him, wants him to take it so that he can just move on—or not move on if that’s what’s owed.

The cigarette dangles loosely from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling lazily into the darkening sky. Around him the cicadas are bringing up a racket, nothing like a little south Georgian lullaby. A chill travels down his spine, something like eyes caressing him from the growing dark. Daryl glances surreptitiously around him, still not seeing anything. He turns his bike back towards home and pushes off.

“Fuck off.” He grunts to the waiting darkness. The wind whips through the trees like an answering cackle.

||

The side panel of glass next to his front door is broken when he gets home. Alarm bells tripping in his head as Daryl parks the bike outside the garage and reaches for the knife he has strapped to his belt. Surely whoever broke in heard him coming, the Harley not exactly making a discreet entrance.

There’s lights on, what burglar turns on the lights? He deftly pushes open the front door, eyes scanning the darkened rooms to his left and right before moving towards the source of noise and light down the hall. Coming into the room is like a hand around his lungs, trapping his breath momentarily before his eyes recognize the figure. He growls lowly, putting away his knife with a few quick motions. “What. The. Fuck.” Daryl hisses, already heading for the tiny closest where he keeps some basic cleaning supplies. “Did you have to break my fucking glass?” Merle looks positively delighted to see him. Feet kicked up on the beat down coffee table and beer in hand.

“Waiting would have been a little more enjoyable if yah had anythin’ besides the local stations.”

Daryl doesn’t spend much time at home and his TV package is testament to that, only the local stations coming through on the older tube TV. “Ain’t a fuckin’ hotel now am I?” He grunts angrily, sweeping up the glass with a viciousness that is unwarranted on the unsuspecting broom and dust pan.

“So lil bro, thought anymore about the job?” Merle takes a long swig of his beer, eyes a similar shade of blue, but where Daryl’s take after his mother’s, Merle’s have the dark edge of their father’s. It sends an involuntary flinch through him. For a second he can see the haunting jaunt of his father’s face in his brother, the same curve of his jaw and sneer of his lips. And then it disappears as quickly as it had appeared.

“I told yah I’m not messin’ around in that shit.” Daryl tosses the glass in the trash and puts away the broom. He makes for the fridge, intent on drowning out his brother with beer. Merle is following him step for step suddenly, butting in between Daryl and grabbing another beer for himself before he can even crack his first one.

“Come’on, don’t yah wanna be set for good? Have enough money to have this shithole place paid off for life? Enough extra cash to keep fixin’ up Harleys until your old and pissin’ your pants?” Merle’s pointing at him with the end of his beer bottle, eyes manic in the half light of the kitchen. He’s like a dog with a bone.

Daryl sighs heavily, leaning back against the counter with one hip. The Dixon men were hard headed to a fault, stubborn to the core, and this is likely another prime example of that fact. Merle likely wouldn’t leave until he’d gotten some form of cooperation out of Daryl. “I’m not agreein’, but what’s the job, **the details** Merle.” Wouldn’t harm him to hear the score, maybe that way his brother would ease up on trying to convince him.

He sees his mistake when his brother looks instantly victorious, face breaking out in a predatory grin. Daryl wants to puke, but schools his features into a scowl. “Just a run, we need to pick up a score from a warehouse and drive it over to Texas. And bam we get a nice pretty payout.”

Daryl feels his eyebrow raise dubiously, “that easy huh?” With Merle, this shit is never as simple as he lays it out to be.

“Yah, I mean there’s the danger of drivin’ the shit cross country, but other than that it’s relatively simple.” Merle takes a swig of his beer, settling against the counter opposite Daryl casually. They stare at each other. Daryl watching for any sort of break in his brother, looking for the lie he knows must be there. A second before he’s about to call him on his bullshit Merle breaks, chuckling softly and holding his hand and hook up plaintively. “Fine fine fine, it’s a big score. Like…big big.” Merle gestures with his hand and hook far apart, like that’s supposed to tell Daryl just how ginormous the amount of drugs they were being asked to taxi to Texas truly is.

Daryl raises his eyebrow again but Merle just shrugs softly, the picture of casual air. “An’ why do yah need me?”

“Cause this is a lot of drugs and the faster we get it to Texas the better. If there are two of us we can take shifts driving and only have to stop for gas.” It’s plausible, Daryl understanding that his brother usually does think through most of his plans. It’s when he gets greedy that shit goes to hell.

Daryl rides the silence out for a while longer, letting Merle sweat under his stare. His nearly finished with his beer before Merle agitatedly breaks the staring contest. “So…? Yah in?”

He hems and haws over it a little more, vaguely a warning bell alarming in the back of his head. The image of Rick grabbing his bicep earlier today and warning him not to say yes. Was this what he was talking about? Damn him for being so cryptic. “Fine—”

Merle busts out in a large smile, starting the speak before Daryl cuts him off once more.

“—but I swear to fucking god Merle this is it. Don’t come knocking on my door looking for help no more, kay?” Daryl puts his beer down so forcefully the sound of the glass against the linoleum acts as a gavel at the end of his sentence. Merle’s smile dims, his dark blue eyes looking for something in Daryl’s face, whatever he finds has his face falling even more.

“Yah got a deal lil’ bro.”

||

He’s rehearsing his lines the next morning on his way to work. Going over how he’s gonna tell Glenn and Abraham that he’ll be out for about three days next week, hunting trip with his brother. Daryl tries not to think of the disapproving looks Glenn is likely to give him. He certainly won’t be happy thinking Daryl is alone in the woods with guns and just his brother and no one else for miles. God forbid he finds out what they actually plan on doing…

Even so, when he pulls into the lot at the repair shop a curious rock lodges in his throat. He doesn’t want to lie but telling the truth is even worse. God damn Merle.

Beth is her usual self at the front desk, easily answering the phone with a smack of her gum and lining up some more appointments for them. She winks at him as he crosses by her to the back of the shop. Abraham’s talking with a client by a large tahoe, and they exchange nods when their eyes meet. Glenn on the other hand instantly comes over to greet him when he notices him. “Mornin’ Daryl, everythin’ alright?” He’s got the eagerness of a puppy and the warm gooey brown eyes that remind Daryl of his favorite molten lava cake. Just looking at him makes something in Daryl want to spill his guts. Fuck. Vaguely, he wonders if this will count as a strike towards his ticket to hell. Not that his soul isn’t likely already claimed and shit. Fuckin’ _Rick._ What kind of name is that for a demon anyway?

Glenn’s looking at him suspiciously, letting Daryl know he’s been silent too damn long. “Er sorry, mornin’.” Daryl rushes to spit out, and after a beat or two Glenn falls back into happy golden retriever energy.

“Excited for dinner tonight? I invited most of the gang, Hershel’s gonna come by too.”

Daryl perks up at that, the man had been traveling as of late, trusting Daryl and Glenn to do right by his mechanic’s shop. To hear that he’s back in town and planning on coming to dinner warms Daryl’s insides. “Oh, cool.”

Glenn’s looking at him like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and Daryl suddenly wants to slap the smile off his face. “I’ll need ta be out from Monday to Wednesday next week. Goin’ huntin.”

It has the desired effect, Glenn blanching for a second before gathering himself. “What? I mean okay…but like are yah goin’ by yourself?” His request is so out of the blue, that must be what’s thrown Glenn. Normally Daryl just hunts on the weekends or chooses to come in late and spend the early morning stalking the woods. He doesn’t usually take off multiple days for a hunt.

“Yah, I’m goin’ with Merle.” Daryl watches the flinch that ripples through Glenn’s features. He’s shocked, legitimately shocked at Daryl’s words.

“What?” Is all he can muster to say.

Daryl grumbles lightly, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck and looking decidedly anywhere but at Glenn. “Thought it might be a good way to catch up. ‘Sides, if he pisses me off I can just shoot him right?” Daryl tries to diffuse the conversation with humor but it falls flat.

Whatever Glenn’s about to say is lost as Beth comes banging through the door to the front of the shop and calls out that there’s an old lady who needs a tow. Daryl’s never thought himself lucky but he jumps at the chance to get out of the garage for a bit and away from Glenn’s searching stare.

||

The rest of the day is awkward to say the least, a steady stream of work keeping the chitchat to a minimum but that doesn’t mean Daryl doesn’t catch Glenn staring at the side of his head like he’s seen an alien. He’s practically dreading the dinner tonight…but surely the man wouldn’t bring it up in front of everyone…right?

He’s dead wrong.

The minute he walks into Maggie and Glenn’s respectably decorated farm house chic ranch home he’s bombarded with everyone (i.e. Maggie, Glenn, and Beth) questioning why he’d willingly choose to go hunting with his brother. Daryl wants to growl at them, but instead chooses to sit in their comfy recliner with a none to subtle roll of his eyes.

“I’m a grown man ain’t I? Last time I checked that is.” Daryl grunts, accepting the beer Maggie holds out to him but it feels like a peace offering.

“Just…” Maggie makes eye contact with Glenn across the room before continuing, “we’re just worried is all. Merle didn’t give us the best impression when I met him the other day.” She’s got that ridiculously convincing voice, eyes warm and trained solely on Daryl. It’s times like this he’s thankful for his fringe, at least it lessens the feel of their eyes on him.

“Promise I can take care of myself.” Daryl hisses, but they’re interrupted from continuing the conversation by Abraham and his girlfriend arriving. They’re just about to sit down for dinner when Hershel walks through the door. The white of his hair makes him look old, but Daryl knows from experience that he’s still as sharp as a tack. An old shop injury had taken his leg below the knee from him but the prosthesis is barely noticeable. Daryl’s first to stand and offer his hand to the older man, something suspiciously like a smile breaching his face.

Hershel gives him a look for before pulling him into a hug, a warm balm soothing through him at the familiar feeling. He’d grown a lot over the years but despite the two men now being of equal height there is still something so comforting and paternal in Hershel’s actions.

“Comon dad, you’re late, dinner’s gonna go cold,” Maggie chastises, placing a quick kiss on her father’s cheek before pointing to the open spot at the head of the table. Beth flounces over quickly to hug her dad before moving back to her seat.

“Mr. Greene,” Glenn greets, holding out his hand like Hershel hadn’t also taken him under his wing and shown him the ropes.

“Quit that shit Glenn,” he smiles magnanimously and the previous conversations flowing throughout the table pick up once more.

This is as dangerously close as Daryl will get to saying he has a family.

||

They ride out together, planning already that one of them would drive the truck with the goods and the other would follow in the pickup. They’d ditch the truck back at the mechanic shop and then continue on their cross country road trip to Texas. The pickup is definitely quieter than his Harley, and they’d needed it to carry both of them out here. But his Harley is practically an extension of himself and riding in the pickup feels wrong.

Merle had done all the intel and recon on the place. Telling Daryl on the drive over the amount of security and what to expect. There are vague warning bells ringing in the back of his head but Daryl assumes it’s from finally agreeing to go along with his brother’s hairbrained scheme. He keeps trying to remind himself—three days and it’s done.

It's not until they stop outside the fencing about 200 yards from the building, light’s off, that Daryl realizes something might have been fundamentally left out. “The job isn’t just to transport is it…” Daryl growls, hand tightening on the door handle hard enough that the plastic groans slightly. Merle has the audacity to look smug.

“I mean not exactly.” He hedges, already getting out of the truck and effectively forcing Daryl to follow him if he wants answers. Not to mention Merle has the fucking keys.

“Merle what the fuck is going on,” Daryl hisses, having the presence of mind to keep his voice down. His brother is already walking over to the darkened shadow of fencing about ten feet from where they’d stopped the car. Only now does Daryl see the bolt cutters hanging limply in his good hand.

Merle already has about five links of fencing cut before Daryl makes his way to standing beside him. “Well, the deal was that I deliver the shipment from the Toratio gang. Easy enough, they’re planning on moving it tomorrow so it’s all been packed up just for us. We just have to break in an steal it. Once we deliver it to the Perez gang we’re set.” He says it like it’s that easy. Like they aren’t currently breaking into rival gang territory to steal a pretty penny of drugs and drive off without a care in the world. Daryl wants to scream, he wants to turn around and take the truck and drive off and leave Merle to his fate…he wants… “Come on bro, I need you.”

He curses under his breath, ripping the bolt cutters from his brother’s hands and finishing the job much quicker than the hook handed man before him. Merle’s grinning now, but Daryl knows that the second he has the chance he’s going to sock his brother in the mouth. “Shut the fuck up ass wipe and let’s get this over with.”

They keep low to the ground as they run up the side of the hill. The brush and the darkness concealing them from view. Security is relatively lax for this big of a shipment, but Daryl hazards that it takes a big balled motherfucker to even think about attempting to steal from the Toratio cartel. Daryl only hopes they live through it to tell the tale.

Merle had briefed him on the way over that there would likely be a few men in rotating patrols around the warehouse, as well as one or two men inside. He had failed to mention that these men wouldn’t be welcoming to them. They hit the dirt about twenty feet from the warehouse, hidden amongst some scrub brush and darkness on a little hill. His eyes have adjusted to the lack of light, easily picking out the moving patrol of men lazily circling the building. They’re lax in a way that will likely work to their advantage. They’re obviously not expecting people to break in as one of the guys stops his route to light up a cigarette and lean against a corner of the warehouse looking out into the trees. Merle moves before Daryl can whisper anything, he’s up like a shot, far faster than he’d been expecting. Daryl hurries to follow, sliding down the embankment with little finesse. Merle’s already ten steps ahead of him, his boots silent in the dirt as he comes up behind the man smoking. It’s then that Daryl realizes he’s changed his hook to a gruesome looking blade, the metal glinting against the moonlight before it slashes through the unsuspecting man’s throat.

He never had a chance. Daryl watches stunned, still about fifteen feet away from them, but the broadening pool of blood is easy enough to recognize. Merle is already dragging him into a shadowed inlet of the building, hiding him in the darkness. The blood will soak into the ground and they’ll be gone before anyone realizes what’s happened.

Daryl catches himself, shaking the image from his mind for the moment and quietly following his brother. They obviously hadn’t discussed killing, Daryl had still been under the impression they were just the transport crew, but this…this is a whole other level. He grits his teeth, understanding his brother’s hurried gesture towards the locked door into the warehouse. They likely only have about five minutes before the patrol rounds by them, and Daryl’s always been the better lock pick.

He crouches in the dirt, angrily grabbing the outstretched leather pouch of tools from his brother. “Awfully prepared ain’t yah,” Daryl hisses softly, ripping out the needed tools and setting to work. It’s a simple dead bolt and handle lock. They’re in, in under a minute. Daryl’s a little rusty or he would have had them in under 30 seconds. He can tell Merle is thinking the same thing if the twist of his lips is anything to go by. Merle goes first, slipping through the door into further inky darkness.

  
Daryl follows after a second, his ears straining to pick up any sounds besides the roar of the cicadas and his own heartbeat. His mind flashes back to the inky puddle spreading across the ground and he shudders softly. He slips through the crack in the door and shuts it softly behind him. For a second he’s lost track of Merle, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the even further decreased light of the warehouse. A soft shift of a shoulder helps him pinpoint his brother in the dark. He’s hunkered down behind a stack of crates, eyes searching for anything moving. Daryl pushes against the door towards the man, shifting softly into a crouch next to the man.

The quiet in the warehouse is unnerving. He almost wants to say something just the break the bubble of silence, but he resists. Whatever Merle sees has him off, the man once again quietly stalking down a row of shelves towards the outskirts of the building. Daryl follows a few steps behind, vaguely realizing his brother is aiming for a man leaned against a stack of crates, nose buried in his phone. He looks away right as his brother strikes, the man not having the time to react before he’s choking on his own blood. Merle stashes him behind a stack of boxes, off the beaten path of the warehouse and crouches down again. A noise to their right sounds loudly in the silence.

“Rod com’mere.” There’s some shuffling, a door shutting and then a light flickering on about thirty feet to their right. It casts a dim glow over the shelves, much of the large building still shrouded in shadows. Daryl gives Merle a look, before his eyes are drawn back to the man pacing out into the more open area of the middle of the warehouse. For the first time Daryl sees their end game. Behind the man is a large tanker truck pointed towards a freight door. There’s a path cleared for the truck to drive in and out but currently the door is closed and they are obviously not planning to move the truck anytime tonight. The man thumps on the side of the truck, maybe thinking ‘Rod’ is taking an ill-timed nap in the cab or something.

Daryl has a large suspicion that Rod is the guy his brother just killed and is currently bled out on the floor behind them.

“Rodrigo, get your ass over here,” the guy calls out again, the patience wearing thin in his voice. He actually looks up from the clipboard he’d been scanning this time. Eyes squinting as he tries to make sense of the shadowed shapes around him. Daryl barely even breathes, refusing to duck even further and risk drawing attention to himself, trusting he is well enough hidden. “Rodrigo?” The guy calls again, this time irritated with a hint of concern. And, as if to himself, “you better not be sleeping again you lazy fuck.” He pulls a phone from his back pocket, quickly sliding the screen open and toggling to the call screen. Daryl grits his teeth, taking the opportunity to duck further and make eye contact with his brother. Like he expects, a shrill chime alerts from the dead body cooling next to his brother. Merle smirks, gesturing with his knife towards Daryl expectantly. They’d been on enough hunts together for Daryl to know exactly what his brother is trying to communicate.

He shakes his head, teeth bared. Daryl hadn’t come out here to dirty his hands with blood. He hopes the look he shoots his brother says ‘fuck you’. It must, because Merle looks bathed in ire instantly, his knife-stump slashing the air angrily as it gestures towards the sound of footsteps heading their way. Daryl bares his teeth more, shaking his head pointedly ‘fuck. no.’. Merle looks pissed, snarling silently before crouching like a waiting predator. The guy with the phone is coming quick, his footsteps a little more hurried as the tone continues unanswered. Surely if Rod had just been sleeping he would have heard the sound by now and woken up and answered…right?

Daryl wants to look away but the guy breaks the line of their shelves too quickly and Merle’s on him like a flash. There’s a hoarse grunt, something entirely too loud for the current state of the warehouse. He flinches, blood splashing him across the face in flecks as Merle makes quick work of the dude from there. “Fuck…” he hisses, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his Henley.

Merle rounds on him, looking every inch the barbarian he’d proven himself to be in the last thirty minutes. “What the fuck Darlina, chickenin’ out on me?” His knife-stump is covered in drying blood, the glint of the metal dingy from copious layers of drying and fresh blood. How the fuck had he gone from this morning to now? Daryl spirals slightly, taking a step back before righting himself.

“Fuck off you asshole, didn’t agree to this. Let’s get the fuck outta here.” Daryl growls angrily, turning his back to his brother and stomping towards the waiting truck.

He reaches the back of the large truck and undoes the latch, pushing the gate up and wincing at how loud it sounds in the near silent warehouse. Inside is stacks on stacks of neatly packaged coke. Daryl does a double take, backing up in shock at the presenting sight. Merle’s standing next to him grinning. “Pretty ain’t she?” He seems nonplussed, the ridiculous amount of coke unsurprising.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me. This isn’t some easy score. This is an act of war.” Daryl near whispers, the reality of the shit they are marring themselves in coming to light. “What do they have on you?”

Merle has the decency to look a little abashed.

“What. The. Fuck. Do. They. Have. On. You.” Merle’s not answering him, smile grim, “because it must be fuckin’ bad if you knew they were sending you on a suicide mission. To them they either get this score or you die tryin’. Then after it’s all said and done, you’re the one with the target on your back.” Daryl is practically spitting, hands gesticulating wildly as he aggressively points to the freight truck full of coke displayed like a poison apple.

“Hey hey hey, calm down lil’ bro, if we make this score we’re set, come’on let’s—”

“Nah, fuck this. I’m out. This is insane Merle, you gotta know that. Either way you’re a scapegoat and a fuckin’ idiot.” Daryl turns away, intent on slipping out the side door they came in and melting back into the darkness. No fuckin’ way he’s gonna offer his neck for some cartel that doesn’t give a shit about him. See how good that wound up for his brother, they took his hand. What would it cost this time? Both their fuckin’ lives?

But Merle doesn’t back down, the man’s temper having spiked with no outlet for defusal. The man grabs for him, gripping onto the black Henley Daryl’d chosen to wear for tonight. It rips ridiculously with the force, the torn fabric flapping down having been ripped from the top of the neck/shoulder, down to just below his ribs. For a second he’s frozen, shock and anger racing through him like a freight train. He rounds on his brother, prepared to sock him in the mouth like the asshole he is, but the look on his brother’s face stops him.

With cold dread flooding through him Daryl realizes what his brother must have seen. “Don’t. Fucking. Say. It.” He growls in warning. The flighty rush of panic washing over him with the thought that saying it out loud will make it impossible to forget or move past. 

“Fuck Dar…did he do that to yah—”

“Of course he fuckin’ did.” Daryl growls, turning back towards his brother fully so that his back isn’t visible. Suddenly, even though it’s been years, he can feel every scar, every mark highlighted like a track of fire under his skin. “What…did yah think he’d just stop when yah left? Fuckin’ idiot. That bastard wouldn’t stop even if the devil was banging his door down.” He can’t stop the vitriol flying from his mouth, finally able to spill the bile from his belly. Daryl knows it’s not Merle’s fault, that their dad laid into Merle just as hard, but there’s a part of Daryl who resents his older brother for escaping and leaving Daryl alone. Leaving him with that monster. Daryl’d grown up quickly when he realized older brothers weren’t knights in white armor like the movies portrayed them to be.

“Daryl I—” the gunshot is a shock of noise amidst their shouting match. Daryl having momentarily forgotten what they are in the middle of. He ducks—or he thinks he ducks, in reality he crumples. His side burns, true fire licking under his skin and lighting up his nerves around his right kidney. Daryl looks up, time seemingly having slowed, tries to open his mouth to say something but blood chokes him. He coughs roughly, trying to clear the blood only for more to try to strangle him once more.

His vision narrows to tunnels, vaguely he hears another gunshot before Merle is at his side, haphazardly pressing his hands into the mess of Daryl’s side. His brother is saying something—screaming something but there’s an endless droning buzz taking over Daryl’s hearing, whiting everything else out.

He smirks, guess his debt was due today.

Merle watches Daryl’s consciousness flicker in an out before finally fleeing like the blood leaking from his body. No matter how much he presses on the wound the liquid keeps leaking out with little stemming. He cusses, something finally akin to fear leaking through him as he watches his little brother’s face pale.

A crack of lightening and the smell of sulfur and burnt ash overtake his senses for a moment. Merle looks up in shock, eyes alighting on an imposing figure stalking across the warehouse with definitive purpose. He’s edged in black, singed and severe in an impeccable suit, the likes Merle would never even hope to have the money for. A niggling memory tugs at the back of his brain, the face somehow familiar but not. His gaze trips over black eyes, the whites completely swallowed in depthless ink. If that weren’t weird enough, the man is smoking, not as in a cigarette, no. Smoke is curling from his shoulders and head as if he’d just been put out like a flame. A spade shaped tail of the deepest black tipped in crimson whips angrily like a cat behind him. In the intensity of the man’s rage the smoke and heat double, the feeling of it almost enough to burn Merle as the man closes in.

Horns grow from the man’s temples and arch up and back, hugging the curve of the man’s head. **_Demon._**

Unknowingly, it takes Merle far less time to settle on what exactly he’s seeing. He has the benefit of age, unlike Daryl did when he first encountered the otherworldly being. The recognition suddenly rushing back to him as he takes in the tousled curls and handsome features as the man finally comes within short distance of them. He’d been the man on the sidewalk with Daryl the other day.

“Get the fuck away from us,” Merle growls, still righteously protective over his little brother despite the fact he’d gotten them into this situation.

The demon merely smirks, the grin a little cat like and entirely too confident. **“I really don’t think you have the right to order me around jackass.”** He doesn’t falter until he’s kneeled at Daryl’s side. **“Besides, I took care of the rest of the pests running around, you should be thankful—”**

Merle lashes out with the wicked looking blade attached to his stump, he catches the man’s cheek, slicing through supple skin and coming out the other side. Momentarily it gives him a garish look, something akin to the Joker, but the skin knits together before his very eyes.

**“Honestly, I thought you’d have realized that sort of shit wouldn’t work on me. You really are a fucking idiot.”** But he’s not even looking at Merle, the man so insignificant and entirely threat-less that he doesn’t even need to be watched. The demon is hovering over his little brother, brow wrinkled as he scans the suddenly too quiet man sprawled across the floor. Merle hadn’t even realized his brother had stopped breathing.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Merle removes his hands from the wound and towards his brother’s chest, instantly working to start up a healthy rhythm of CPR.

**“Back up—”**

“What?” Merle huffs angrily, certain he must have heard the demon wrong, if he stopped now his brother would surely die.

**“I said get out of my fucking way,”** the demon doesn’t give him time to even think about it, pushing a solid hand against his chest and sending him flying at least ten feet back. Only a shelving unit stop his progression. The breathe in his lungs leaves him with a dramatic oomph. He watches unsteadily, trying to catch his breath as the demon leans further over his brother. One hand settles over the ugly wound in the man’s side and the other over Daryl’s heart. **“—honestly, I told you not to agree you little shit.”** It takes a second for Merle to realize the demon’s not talking to him. The words lapse between too quiet and just loud enough for Merle to hear from where he’s slumped against the shelves. He’s about to protest that his brother’s dying while he just kneels there doing nothing…but suddenly a sharp inhalation of breathe through abused lungs sounds from Daryl. He’s still unconscious but there is at least a wheezing inhalation and exhalation with a more normal pattern as time wears on.

Merle watches entranced as the large pool of blood that had been spreading underneath his brother starts shrinking. More accurately, it could be described that the blood starts retreating—a fucking sight if Merle has anything to say about it. The blood somehow being drawn backwards into the prone form of his brother. The once too pale face of his brother regaining a healthy flush of blood. It’s a miracle—is that what you call it? Particularly when it involves a demon? Merle isn’t sure, but his brother’s breathing evens out and even calms as time passes. The harsh wheezing gasps are now strong inhalations of a sleeping man, unperturbed by fluid or anything else. If Merle hadn’t watched it all happen, he’d think Daryl was just sleeping.

“What the fuck did you do?” Merle hears himself ask, slowly picking himself up off the floor. Very tempted to check for himself that his brother’s pulse is strong and alive.

**“I just saved his fucking life.”** The demon looks up suddenly, horns and tail absent between one moment and the next. Merle gets the unfortunate pleasure of watching the black bleed back into that of a normal iris of a human. **“Now if I didn’t think there is still some sort of familial love between you and Daryl, I’d end you right now. As it is…take this as a warning if you fuck with Daryl again, I won’t let you off so easy.”** The demon stands and brushes off his suit, not a speck of dirt to be seen even though a steady supply of ash hovers on and around him like a mythical thing. He stoops to pick Daryl up, lifting him like his grown ass brother weighs little more than a feather.

“What the fuck are you doing—”

**“I’m taking him home. This is your mess to clean up. Daryl has nothing more to do with it does he?”** The tone is unquestionable, daring Merle to fight back and see the consequences. The snarky cocked eyebrow makes Merle snarl, but instead of waiting for a response the demon turns and melts into the shadows with his brother like they were never even there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading another chapter. when I tell you the mood to write for this story just hits me and will not give up...I already have half of the next chapter written.
> 
> please think about leaving a comment. I love reading them 
> 
> xo AD


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